


Reincarnation

by savorvrymoment



Category: The Strain (TV), The Strain Trilogy - Guillermo del Toro & Chuck Hogan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow-ish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: noun: re·in·car·na·tion-     a person in whom a particular soul is believed to have been reborn-     a new version of something from the past





	1. Little Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~But even with everything—with seeing him in her sleep every night for the past twenty-seven years—she’s not prepared to run into him while awake, whole and in the flesh, and so very real.~

_Little girl, little girl, why are you crying?_  
_Inside your restless soul your heart is dying_  
_Little one, little one, your soul is purging_  
_Of love and razor blades your blood is surging_

_**¿Viva La Gloria?** _

 

 

Tessa has dreamt of the silver-eyed demon since before she can remember. 

‘Sleep-paralysis’ they call it, once her mother takes her to therapy as a sobbing ten-year-old, afraid to go to bed at night.  ‘He’s not real,’ they all tell her.  ‘It’s only your brain reacting to a sleep cycle condition.  He’s not real.’  The psychologists give her pamphlets that the child-Tessa does not understand, and they teach her meditation-relaxation techniques to help her sleep. 

But regardless of the therapy the demon follows her through the nights, through her youth, through adolescence, and into adulthood.  And while everyone may insist he isn’t real, he certainly _seems_ real—sitting on the edge of her bed, or lurking in the shadowed corner of her bedroom, monstrous face passively watching her, ice-glow eyes calm and quiet. 

Though while she spends most all of her childhood terrified of the demon, her feelings for him eventually change.  When she is fifteen-years-old her mother passes away suddenly and unexpectedly, a victim of a drunk-driver.  Tessa goes to bed that night and cries herself to sleep only to find those silvery eyes staring down at her from the side of the bed, such a profound sadness in their depths.  She’s learned by now not to fight this, that if she struggles she will just become more panicked and frightened…  So she just looks back up at him and watches as he sits down by her side and begins to stroke her hair.  For the first time his otherworldly presence is comforting, not frightening.

And once she graduates high school he follows her across state lines, to different apartments and different beds, her own and other’s.  When she falls asleep by strange men’s sides she will see him guarding over her, usually staring down at the man she’s just slept with and slowly, aggressively sharpening the heavy sword he carries, the one with the bone-handle.  And while she gets the feeling he’d behead these one night stands and brief flings should they make one wrong move—or at least he would if he was _real_ —his presence afterward makes her feel safe, makes her feel less guilty.  Ironically she at least has this one stable relationship, this one loyal man in her life…

When she gets pregnant after a two-month fling, with a man who ‘doesn’t have time for a kid’, the demon sits with her every night.  The expression on his grisly face changes, the look in those icy eyes no longer sad nor hostile.  No.  For the first time in her twelve years with him she sees him happy, content, and affectionate.  When her belly begins to grow big with the child he lays one large hand on her baby bump, or he will sometimes lean over to rest his cheek against her.  And as her due-date quickly approaches and her fear begins to settle in—her mother is dead, her father has turned to the bottle, her baby’s father is effectively gone, and she is utterly and completely _alone_ —Tessa looks at the demon one night, looks at him while he lovingly gazes down at her pregnant belly…  And she thinks clearly, _At least I have you._  

It’s as though he can hear her thoughts—and she supposes he can…  He’s a product of her own mind, is he not?  But he turns away from her belly and eases up into the bed, stretching out next to her.  She can’t reach out to him amidst her dream-state even though she wants to, but he wraps one strong arm around her and bends forward to press a kiss to her cheek.  His lips are dry but soft, and he smells earthy, metallic, like copper.  She laughs the next day when she wakes up.  He’s been visiting her for so long apparently her mind has fleshed him out to the point of smell and touch.  She would be worried for her sanity, if now the thought of him _not_ being there wasn’t so terrifying. 

The night she brings the baby home to her New York apartment, the crib tucked into the corner of their one bedroom, the demon visits as per the routine.  He materializes in front of the baby’s crib looking down inside, his hands resting on the crib’s railing, the look on his face so very… _happy._   And Tessa can’t move, can’t speak, but she’s thought _to_ him before in a way, which had seemed to work.  So she thinks, _She’s a baby girl.  I named her Sarah—like from the Bible._

He turns his head to look at her, blinking, before one side of his mouth curves up into a grin.  He makes a quiet noise, a deep rumble, before peering in at Sarah again.  He watches the baby for several more silent moments, before turning away and back to the bed.  His hand plays over the bone-handle of the sword at his hip as he peers around the bedroom, taking everything in and assessing the danger.  _My brave warrior_ , she thinks.  The sword, the breastplate, the bracers and shin guards—there’s no doubt she’s imagined herself some sort of fighter.  _There’s nothing wrong right now.  Sarah is ok, I’m ok.  Sit down and rest._   And he regards her through those silvery-white eyes for a second before relenting, sitting down on the bed by her side, then affectionately brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. 

He’s there for her later on through the nights when she falls asleep in the kitchen, staying up far too late with her nose stuck in anatomy and physiology textbooks.  She usually can’t see him the way her face ends up lying in the middle of the book pages, but she can hear his boots padding around on the kitchen tile, can hear that oddly soft rumbling noise.  She can’t see him but he’s still there, guarding and protecting.  And that knowledge, his presence, it calms her. 

And even later, when she comes home from twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, both physically and emotionally exhausted, he is always there, standing resolutely at the foot of her bed, or sometimes sitting on the bed next to her hip, her personal guardsman.  She tells him things sometimes, when she’s tired and lonely, things she’s too embarrassed or afraid to tell anyone else…

 _I worry about Sarah—I worry about being her mother._   _I wasn’t prepared for this, and I don’t know what I’m doing,_ she thinks when Sarah is three.  He glances at her out of the corner of his eye at this admission but gives no further indication that he’s heard her, much less that he cares.  _Geeze, man_ , she thinks.  _Show a little concern…?  Or maybe that’s it, is it?  You’re not concerned and you think I shouldn’t be either?_   He looks back at her once again, expression approving, before moving away to peer out the window.

 _I miss my mom_ , she thinks at him, when Sarah is seven.  He frowns down at her, sitting on the bed by her hip.  _She was so smart, I looked up to her so much.  I would be calling her for advice every day now, if she were still alive.  I… I loved her so much._ That sadness shines behind his eyes, and he strokes his knuckles gently, comfortingly down her cheek in reply.

 _I worry about Sarah_ , she thinks again, when Sarah is ten.  This is a frequent thought of hers—the demon actually rolls his eyes at it.  Tessa bristles.  _Wow, you’re awfully sassy for a figment of my imagination._   His lips quirk up into a half smirk.  _It’s just—they say children should have a male role-model in their life.  And Sarah doesn’t have a dad, or a granddad, or anyone… no men, at least.  I dunno._   She finds herself humored at her own thought…  _I’d send you over to her room, but I remember how terrified I was of you when I was ten.  So that’s probably not a good idea.  Funny how things change with time._   He only rumbles at her in reply.  He never speaks, perhaps he cannot. 

 _The girls at work say I need to start dating.  They’re trying to set me up with this radiology tech,_ she thinks at him, when Sarah is thirteen.  He practically does a one-eighty from where he’s standing by the window, glaring at her with harsh silver eyes.  And it would make sense her dream-fabrication would not like this, considering…  _For fuck’s sake, calm down.  I’m not going to.  It’s just annoying._ He rumbles, apparently happy with her answer, and goes back to gazing out the window.  But Tessa isn’t finished.  _I’m not going to, ever again.  I’m done with dating, done with men.  After all the mistakes I’ve made—and being looked at by Sarah’s father and…  No, just, no men.  Ever again._   And when he looks back at her, the sideways grin on his face is far too satisfied for her liking.  _Oh, keep it in your pants.  Yeah, you’re the only monster for me, happy?_

But even with everything—with seeing him in her sleep every night for the past twenty-seven years—she’s not prepared to run into him while awake, whole and in the flesh, and so very _real_.    

‘Go down, all the way down to the ground floor,’ Dutch had told her.  ‘Look for a bunch of guys, they’re breaking out prisoners—they’re all armed in grey employee suits.  They’ll get you out of here.’  Then, after a pause, ‘And there’s a strigoi-looking blue-eyed tosser down there with them, but he’s alright.  He won’t hurt you.  Just go with them…’

And while that probably should have clued her in— _blue-eyed, strigoi-looking_ —she’s still struck speechless when she exits the elevator onto the ground floor and comes face-to-face with him, her dream-demon, two other men flanking him on either side.  The men have their guns raised and trained on her, but her dream-demon does not.  Instead, his hairless brows raise at the sight of her, and he steps forward, extending one hand out toward her. 

Tessa frantically hits the elevator buttons—to go back up, to close, to do something, _anything_ —but then Sarah is pulling away from her and running out of the elevator toward him.  “No!” Tessa yells at her, watching as he takes her daughter by the hand and then pushes her gently behind him.  “No, honey.  _No!_ ”

The doors to the elevator begin to close, but Tessa cannot leave Sarah, not with whatever this creature is, this nightmare come to life.  She rushes forward, hand reaching out to stop the elevator from closing only to find him darting into her space, his gloved hand tight around her wrist and pulling her forward.  **_Son of a…_**   She pulls against him, cursing, and hears Sarah yell, “Mom!  These are the guys!  Mom, stop, please!”

“ _Woman_!”  The Demon’s voice, for the first time in twenty-seven years.  It’s deep, reverberating, and exactly like she knows it to be… which only terrifies her further.  “Woman, calm yourself.”

“Yo, what’re you doing?” the man flanking the Demon’s right asks.  “She’s an employee, she could be here to stop us…”

“She is not,” the Demon interrupts, yanking Tessa forward and out of the elevator by the arm.

Meanwhile Sarah chimes in, “Dutch told us to come down here.  We know her.  My mom’s a nurse here—I’m B-positive.  Dutch said you could help us get out.”

“We were just leaving, child,” the Demon answers, still trying to subdue Tessa. 

“Let me go!” Tessa squawks.  “Son of a bitch, let me _go_!”

“Are you struggling with her, man?” one of his cohorts asks.  “You just took out like ten of them strigoi, but you struggling with one little lady?”

“I am trying not to harm her,” the Demon answers before apparently giving up on this attempt.  Tessa feels her feet suddenly swept out from underneath her, and her world goes upside down as he swings her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“What?!” she shrieks, squirming wildly in his grasp, but her thrashing doesn’t even slow him down.  “Let me go, son of a bitch!”

“Bro, if she doesn’t wanna go, she doesn’t wanna go.  You can’t just grab her and take her,” his other cohort tries.  “That’s called ‘kidnapping’.”

“No, we want to go,” Sarah says desperately.  “I don’t know why— _Mom!_ ”

Tessa shrieks again, pounding her fists against his back, but his leather harness effectively shields him from her blows.  So she starts kicking out, managing to knee him in the chest first then kick him somewhere lower, softer, somewhere that has him hissing and staggering two steps to the side.  He recovers quickly though, grabbing her calves and restraining her, and snarls at her once again, “ _Woman!_ ” 

“Yeah, ya can.”  She hears one of his cohorts speaking from behind him as they march out of the facility.  “When you’re him?  Yeah, ya can…  I mean, you gonna stop him?”

“Uh…” replies the other one.  Tessa can see him from over the Demon’s shoulder—young, Hispanic, classically good-looking.  She curls her lip up at him in a sneer, and reaches her hand to the side toward Sarah, where the teenager is skittering along by the men’s sides looking uncertain.  The girl quickly grabs onto the Tessa’s hand, while her other hand seems to unconsciously find the blowing tails of the Demon’s trench coat. 

The Demon glances to the side at the pull on his clothes and rumbles— _fucking_ rumbles, just like in her _fucking_ dreams.  “Stay close, child,” he tells Sarah as they come to a door, stopping in front of it.  Then, to his cohorts, “I trust you both can kill whatever is behind this door.”  And obviously to Tessa, “And if you kick me again, woman…”

 _Oh, I’m going to kick you again, you bastard_ , she thinks as he releases her calves, his other arm still looped firmly around her upper thighs to keep her in place.  She doesn’t have time for any good kicking though—there’s the _rattle rattle_ as the Demon tries to turn the locked doorknob, then a resounding _rip_ and _crash_ as he simply plucks it off its hinges and tosses it aside.  Tessa sees it fly through the air out of her peripheral and grabs Sarah’s hand tighter as the girl squeezes in against her and the Demon, eyes wide. 

“Go,” the Demon orders, his two cohorts already slipping past him and outside.  A few scattered gunshots resound from the exterior, but the Demon doesn’t move, doesn’t step out to join the others.  Tessa squirms in his arms, and he growls at her.  “Woman…”

“I have a name!” she snaps at him, indignant.  Then, “What are you doing?  Where are you taking us?!”

He doesn’t answer at first, only repositions her over his shoulder and restrains her properly again.  They set off through the door once the sound of gunshots fade away, Sarah still holding onto her hand.  And then he finally answers, “To safety—I am taking you both somewhere _safe_.”

She gets dumped unceremoniously into the back of a transport van, several armed men already seated in the back.  Her butt hits the hard bench with a _thump_ , and she curses at her dream-demon once again just for good measure.  Sarah hustles by him to sit down next to Tessa, huddling in close next to her mother, obviously unsure amidst all of the commotion.  One of the men next to her risks speaking up, his tone tentative, “Who’re these people?”

The Demon doesn’t pause to answer, just goes to stomp back out of the van.  Her daughter though—her poor, sweet, innocent daughter—pipes up with, “I’m Sarah.”

For some reason this brings the Demon to a screeching halt, already bent to climb down out of the van as he is.  He straightens back up, turning his head to regard both her and her daughter through those familiar ice-blue eyes, and asks disbelievingly, “What…?”

“S-Sarah,” her daughter repeats, frowning and uncertain.  Tessa leans in close, trying to comfort.  _I’m so sorry he’s real, honey, I’m so sorry…_

“And you,” he says, addressing Tessa.  “What is your name?”

“You mean besides ‘woman’?” she snaps, scowling.  His lip curls up into a snarl—she’s reminded of all those looks he’d given the various men sleeping beside her.  She almost laughs, but finally relents instead, “My name is Tessa.”

He just stands and stares for what Tessa feels is an inordinately long amount of time.  It’s difficult to discern the expression on his face… upset, shocked, offended?  Not happy, but then Tessa has seen sorrow and anger on those features far more often than any sort of happiness.

“You?” she asks him eventually.  “You got a name?”

“Mmm,” he hums, looking away from her finally and pulling his coat tighter around himself.  “Quinlan,” he answers, just before bending down to step out of the van.  “My name is Quinlan.”

~*~

She doesn’t get a real good look at him until she’s off the van and inside the underground refuge the group is calling home. 

It’s not an immediate thing.  The Demon leaves her with Dutch at first, stalking off with the man name ‘Mr. Fet’ and Desai— _fucking Desai_ , restrained and with a canvas bag over his head.  Tessa doesn’t know what they intend to do with the man nor does she particularly care.  She can’t say she’s very fond of her former boss…

The only reason she’d ever willing worked at the birthing facility was because her daughter—her fifteen-year-old baby girl—was stuck there.  Sarah is still so very young in Tessa’s eyes, but she’d been old enough for what they’d needed her for.  So she’d stayed close willingly, out of a parental calling more than anything else.

Dutch ends up putting them in a side room, something that looks like it used to be a small office or perhaps some sort of storage closet.  She brings them an air mattress and a few blankets and pillows and shows them where they keep the food and where the toilet is.  Then she disappears as well, following in the footsteps of the Demon and his captive. 

“Should we go, too?” Sarah asks, curious.

“No,” Tessa answers, sure.  “No, let’s leave them to it.  I’m sure they’ve got it covered.”

They get something to eat first, sitting down next to a man who turns out to be a former CDC doctor.  Ephraim is kind, and they talk healthcare while they snack on peanuts and canned fruit.  And she’s beginning to realize just who these people are, can remember Ephraim’s face being circulated before, branded a terrorist, a traitor to the Partnership.  She oddly enough feels safer here than she ever did working in that birthing facility. 

“I—I’m not feeling too good,” Sarah speaks up suddenly.  The Demon comes back from around the corner as the girl stands from the little rickety table, a hand curled around her stomach.  “I think I’m going to go the bathroom.”

“Ok, honey.  You need me?” Tessa asks, twisting in her chair.  She stands up, prepared to follow her daughter, but Sarah shakes her head negative, a hand held out in a ‘stay there’ gesture.  Tessa frowns at the girl’s retreating back and sighs. 

“She ok?” Eph asks.

“Yeah… It’s probably just the stress,” Tessa answers.  She picks up her and Sarah’s empty cans, going to throw them out.  “It’s been a long night, guys, we should probably try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, go on,” Eph says, standing from the table as well.  “It’s really late.  We should all try to get some sleep.”

And she can hear his boots behind her on the concrete as she heads back to her new, makeshift bedroom.  She knows it’s _him_ , her dream-demon, not Eph or any of the others.  There’s something about the pace, the gait, the way his heavy boots resound against the floor.  So she stops outside her room and turns, faces him and looks up into his grisly face…

And for the first time she gets an unobstructed look at him under the fluorescent lights, not half-blinded by her own panic and doing her best to run from him.  Here, she can see he is not _quite_ the same as the demon that haunts her dreams.  Granted he is so incredibly, startlingly similar it’s terrifying—the icy eyes, the greyish skin, the scarred face and reddened throat.  Same height, same shape, same build and tone.  And of course she’d seen that damn sword, that damn bone-handled sword, when he’d slung her over his shoulder.  However there are still minute differences…  The markings and lines across his face are darker, deeper, _older_ , and there’s a new scar etched into his chin.  And he’s dressed modernly now, or more modernly at least, not in the ancient armor—Greek, Roman, Egyptian?—from before. 

He’s unarmed now as he stands in front of her, the trench coat and sweatshirt he’d been wearing earlier gone, leaving him in only a thin long-sleeved shirt and a fitted vest, his dark pants and boots.  He’s staring down at her with those intense silver eyes, and Tessa had _no idea_ what to do with him.

“Can I help you with something?” she asks him, too tired to make the question sound combative. 

He blinks at her and makes that quiet, rumbling noise that she knows so well.  “You should tell Ephraim,” he says.

“What?” she questions, confused by his statement.  “Tell him what?”

“Mmm,” he hums, his eyes sliding past her and toward the closed bathroom door.  “About the child.”

“He was just there…” she starts, before closing her eyes and shaking her head.  She likes her dream-version of the Demon better, the one who doesn’t talk.  She sighs, opening her eyes again to meet his, and says, “If she’s still not feeling well tomorrow, then I’ll let him take a look at her.  I’m a nurse, though, I—.”

His brows raise, and he cuts her off before she can finish her thought.  “You do not know?”

“What?  Just…”  She groans in frustration.  “Say what you want to say.  Say what you mean.  Just…”

“Sarah,” he spits out.  “She’s with child.”

The world seems to stop around Tessa, and she finds herself looking back toward the closed door of the bathroom.  **_No…_**   “What…?” she asks, though he doesn’t bother to repeat himself.  He knows she heard him.  So she lashes out in denial instead.  “No, that’s impossible,” she snaps, trying to keep her voice down so Sarah won’t overhear her.  “It’s been three weeks since her last procedure, and she’s had two pregnancy tests since then, one last week!  They were both negative—you’re wrong, she can’t be…”

His eyes narrow at her.  “Are you saying I am a liar?” he accuses.  Then, before she can answer, “Your tests can produce false positives and negatives, if I am not mistaken.  But my senses, a woman’s smell—that is always true.”

And there’s a lot she wants to say.  _You’re fucking creepy_ , she thinks.  _There’s no possible way_ , she thinks.  _No, this can’t be happening_ , she thinks.  What she actually says is, “Humble, aren’t you?”

He rumbles at her again, annoyed.  “Tell Ephraim,” he orders, or attempts to…

“I’ll tell Ephraim when, or if I deem it necessary,” she snaps at him. _I’m not sure I even believe you._   “You don’t have a dog in this race, Demon.”

The name comes out of her mouth unbidden—it’s what she’s always called her dream-demon.  It’s not necessarily meant as an insult, it’s just his name.  Yet now she knows his name is actually Quinlan, and he frowns down at her, appearing hurt by the use of this other name. 

 _I didn’t mean it like that_ , she thinks.  Then, _Why do you even care?  You don’t know me from Adam._

“I am only concerned for the girl’s health and safety,” he says after an awkward moment.  “The girl’s and her child’s.”

Tessa sighs, and then suddenly hears the bathroom door open behind them.  She gives Quinlan a significant look, hoping her point is made. 

He looks at her down the bridge of his nose and says, “Do not worry, woman.  This is your concern.  I hold it in confidence.”

She lets out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding and answers, “Thank you.”

Though Quinlan is already turning away, going back the way they came.  Tessa watches his back as he walks off, only looking away when she feels Sarah wrap her arms around her from behind.  She squeezes her daughter’s hands and asks, “You okay, honey?”

“Yeah, I’m okay now,” Sarah says.  “I think that canned food maybe just didn’t agree with me…”

Tessa closes her eyes…  _Morning sickness?_ she thinks. 

 ** _No, there’s no way._**  

~*~

Tessa wonders if her demon will still visit her that night, if she will dream of silver eyes in a haunted face as is usual even though that _real thing_ is just two doors down, only steps away.  She doesn’t know whether she hopes she will or hopes she won’t.  The normalcy of her dreams is something comforting, though at the same time she feels she’s already seen quite enough of him today.

As it turns out she does dream, intensely and vividly—but it is not the same sleep-paralysis nightmare that she is used to.  Her dream-demon does not stand over her sleeping body, no, but rather she is transported out of her blankets and pillows off to another world.

And she dreams…

She is herself, but she is not.  She still has dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin.  She is a healer, a caregiver, a mother.  She is kind and compassionate, fierce and protective… 

But her name is not Tessa.  It is _Tasa._  

Tessa knows this somehow—knows innately that this woman, this dream-self, is named Tasa.  Just as she knows that she is sitting in a Roman army camp, far away from her home, a prisoner of war captured by angry men who have invaded her quiet, humble village. 

She can feel this woman’s mix of fear and rage as if it is her own, vivid and distinct.  She is tied to a post inside a large tent, her small child playing next to her in the dirt, the girl oblivious to the danger they are in.  Tasa wants to scream, and she wants to weep, but she will not give these men the satisfaction.  She has cried tears already, and she will not willingly give them anymore evidence of her suffering. 

But then two soldiers are coming into the tent with jeers and mockeries, untying her from the post and jerking her up from the ground by her bound hands.  Her heart beats a rapid staccato as she struggles to her feet, and she breaks out in a cold sweat as terror grips her.  Her child begins to snuffle and cry, scurrying up from the ground and hurrying after her.  She feels the girl’s little hands grab the back of her dirty dress, and her tiny scared voice…  “Mama!”

“It is okay,” she tries to assure the girl, though her voice shakes.  The man leading her jerks hard on the rope her hands are bound by, and she stumbles and nearly falls.  The little girl weeps softly, and so Tasa tries again, “Mama is here.”

She is brought forward alongside two other women, both of whom are bound and flanked by soldiers just as she is.  “Here, General,” the soldier on her left offers.  Then, “If none of these women are pleasing to you, we can bring others.  There are plenty.”

It’s then that Tasa sees him.  Again.  The Demon.  He is standing before them all adorned in the armor of a Roman General, a deep burgundy cloak covering his head and shoulders and pulled around his front.  Most of his monstrous features are hidden underneath the dark shadow of his hood, but she can see those unearthly silver-blue eyes peering out at them all. 

 ** _Shit_** , Tessa thinks clearly

He steps up to the woman farthest from her first—a woman younger than herself, just a girl really, with darker skin and hazel eyes—and he gives her a cursory glance before moving away.   The second woman—lighter skinned, with red hair and blue eyes—gets the same brief once-over before he moves on.  And then he is standing before her, Tasa, his ice blue eyes narrowed as he gazes down at her. 

She stares back at him unflinchingly, refusing to look away and appear vulnerable.  Still, her body betrays her—she begins to tremble, and her eyes well up with unshed tears.  Her little girl makes a soft, scared noise, and she looks back out of motherly instinct to make sure the babe is okay.  The child is looking up at the Demon with wide, anxious eyes, and when Tasa turns back she finds him looking down at the child.  The expression on his shadowed face is oddly subdued—she wishes she could better read what he is thinking. 

The soldier holding her restraints fidgets idly and speaks up, “I’m sorry, Sir.  We shouldn’t have brought this one.  She’s unfit to be wed…”

 ** _Wed?!_**   Tessa thinks. 

At the same time she can clearly hear the woman’s thoughts.  _Wed?!_   Tasa thinks.  _No.  No, no, no…_

And she’s already expecting it when he says it—he’s lingered in front of her for far too long.  “Her,” he says, nodding in Tasa’s direction.  Then, thrown over his shoulder as he turns to walk away, “Take her to my wagon.  I’ll be leaving soon.”

The soldier holding her ropes yanks her forward, and she rushes to comply, trying not to lose her balance and fall.  However, she feels the little hand holding the edge of her dress suddenly pulled away and hears her child begin to cry out for her, wailing and howling.  When she looks back over her shoulder she sees the second soldier forcefully pulling her baby away by the arm.  And something inside her breaks apart and shatters. 

“No!!” she shrieks, attempting to wrench away from the soldier and escape her restraints.  “No, you cannot…!  Sura!  _Sura!!_ ”

“Quiet, woman,” the soldier says, tugging at her restraints.  She almost falls in front of him—but some primal, instinctual drive has gripped her, and she will _not_ let them take her child from her.  She fights, pulling wildly against her ties and kicking out at the soldier.  She manages to catch him with one bare foot to his upper thigh, though it seems to do nothing but anger him further.  He hits her across the face, the force of it sending her tumbling back and to the ground.  Sura _screams._  

“What is happening?”  The Demon is standing close, standing over her, his ungodly voice reverberating with the question.  “It is one woman and one child—is there some problem?  You must _strike_ her?”

“No-no, Sir,” the shoulder stammers.  Then accuses, “She refuses to leave her child.”

Tasa dares to look up then and finds the Demon’s eyes narrowed at the soldier.  He looks furious, as though he is ready to kill just as she’s seen him do before, and she shrinks away despite herself, a chill rolling down her spine.  His eyes flick over to her then, his expression softening as his gaze lands on her huddled body, before he looks back to and snarls at the soldier, “There is no need for her to leave the girl.  I will not separate a mother from her child.”

Tasa sighs audibly in relief and finds the Demon’s blue-glow eyes once again on her.  She drags herself back to her feet, doing her best to appear self-assured and poised again, though she’s too shaken now to manage.  She can feel herself trembling under his intense stare. 

The soldier speaks up.  “There is no need to take the child as well…”

The Demon growls low in his throat.  “I will _not_ separate a mother from her child,” he repeats.  Then orders, “Release the child.  Give me the woman.”

Her heart hammers in dread as her restraints are handed over to the Demon, though at the same time her panic quiets as she feels Sura’s little hand clasp onto the hem of her dress.  The Demon loosens the ties around her wrists before turning away from her and beginning to walk.  She’s frozen amidst the lingering dregs of her terror though, and the rope in his hand eventually goes taut, tugging at her arms. 

He stops and turns back, frowning at her.  And she expects him to yank her forward as the other soldiers had done, or perhaps worse, perhaps lash out with the hellish violence she knows he’s capable of.  However he simply says, “Come, woman.  I mean you no harm.”

She swallows, still terrified, but forces herself to follow him to his wagon.  It’s a short walk for Tasa, but a long one for Sura’s little legs.  The child is tired, sniveling quietly by the time they reach the wagon, and Tasa hums quietly to her, trying to calm her. 

The Demon ushers her into a corner in the back of the wagon, an old patched quilt laid out over the wood, the majority of the wagon already loaded with arms, armor, and covered baskets.  So Tasa crawls in as she’s bid and turns back to pull Sura up with her—only to find the Demon lifting the little girl up in his arms.  Her heart stills in her chest, and she gasps out in fear, reaching for the child immediately.  But the Demon’s hands are gentle with her child, and he effortlessly sets her on the blanket next to Tasa.  He meets Tasa’s eyes then and says, “I will be back soon.  I trust you will still be here when I return.”

And Tasa thinks about running once he is out of sight.  He’s left her untied from the wagon, only her wrists still bound before her.  She could easily get Sura to release her hands—but they are in the middle of a military camp surrounded by soldiers.  Escaping unnoticed will not be so easy.  And anyway she has a feeling that the Demon would find her regardless, even if he did not have a multitude of Roman footmen under his command. 

But also, the edge to his voice when he left—‘ _I trust you will still be here when I return’_ —there is no doubt in Tasa’s mind that that had been a threat. 

She’s still sitting in the back of the wagon when the Demon returns.  He loads the back of the wagon with one more covered basket before taking a moment to pull off the top and reach inside.  He produces a waterskin and several pieces of fruit, handing everything off to Tasa, before he closes and secures the basket.  Sura reaches for the waterskin, whining quietly, obviously thirsty, while the Demon turns away.  Tasa watches him in silence as he climbs up into the seat of the wagon, watches as he straightens his cloak and gathers up the reins.  The wagon bumps forward along the uneven earth once he clicks to the horses. 

Sura slurps messily from the waterskin, her dark eyes inspecting the Demon’s back.  The child’s fear and anxiety seems to have faded now that the other soldiers are gone and she is close to Tasa’s side.  Instead, her distress has subsided into curiosity over the new, odd stranger in their midst.  Tasa keeps having to pull the child down and back into her lap, Sura doing her best to climb up over the side and reach the Demon’s cloak—and for the most part Tasa manages.  Though when she takes one moment to drink from the waterskin herself, Sura wiggles out of her grasp quick as a wink, her little hand yanking at the back of his cloak. 

The Demon startles as though not expecting the contact, while Sura giggles and says shyly, “Hello.”

“I apologize, my Lord,” Tasa says immediately, grabbing up Sura and pulling her away…

…But he is already rumbling, the sound inhuman but not aggressive, and speaks simultaneously, “Mmm.  Hello, Little One.”

Sura giggles again and repeats her greeting from Tasa’s arms.  “Hello!”

He cocks his head to the side, looking partially over his shoulder, though Tasa cannot see his face.  “She is still learning words, my Lord,” she tries to explain for her child.  “She doesn’t mean to be rude.”

There’s silence for a moment—only the sounds of the wagon wheels on the road and the huffing of the workhorses pulling against their harnesses.  But then he lets out another quiet, deep rattle and says, “You do not need to address me as such.”

It takes her a moment to even realize what he means.  She has been a slave most all her life and referring to her masters with deference is second nature at this point.  She swallows nervously and eventually asks, “Then how should I address you?”

He rumbles again, a low reverberating sound.  “Once we are bound by Roman law, you may address me as ‘Husband’,” he tells her.  “Until then, my name is Quintus.”

 _The Demon has a name_ , she thinks.  Then, _I’m about to be wed to a demon…  Does that mean my soul is now forever damned as well?  Will I suffer next to him in Tartarus for allowing him to drag me away?_

“Sura!” her child exclaims, obviously having recognized the word ‘name’ when the Demon had spoken it.  “Sura!”

He rattles quietly, and so Tasa clarifies needlessly, “My daughter’s name is Sura.”  Then, wondering whether or not she should lie… though then seeing no real reason to, “And my name is Tasa.”

“Mmm,” he hums.  “Lovely names.”

And he seems so passive here, so mild compared to what she’s witnessed from him before.  The wagon rolls on down the road, the sun beginning to set in the distance.  She wonders if he will stop to rest for the night, yet knows inherently that he won’t. 

“I have land purchased near _Pistoria_ ,” he offers unbidden.  “It is a small farm.  Enough to feed a family, with perhaps some to spare for sale.  You and your child will be cared for, safe.”

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t really know _how_ to respond.  _I don’t truly believe Sura or myself are safe while you are nearby.  You frighten me, Demon…_

“I ask that you be my companion, and my ally.  And that you be a good, dutiful mother to the child,” he continues.  “But that is all I ask.”

She’s offended immediately.  _I have been a good, dutiful mother to my child **long** before I ever even knew of your existence_ , she thinks.  She tidies this thought up, though, before she voices it.  “I have always done what is best for my daughter,” she tells him.

“I have no doubt,” he says.  Silence settles again momentarily—Sura lies down on the quilt, her fatigue seeming to catch up with her, and rests her head on Tasa’s thigh.  The Demon speaks up again, “It is several days’ travel to _Pistoria_.  Please relax and rest.”

His words make her wonder if he can somehow sense her daughter’s sleepiness, if he can sense _her own_ bone-deep exhaustion.  She sighs, petting her daughter’s soft brown hair, and resolves to stay awake as long as she can. 

And then, as though an afterthought—or as though it is something the Demon does not have to concern himself with very often, if at all…  “Inform me if you need more water or food.  There are more skins and fruit packed in the wagon, I will assist you in retrieving them,” he says.  “And inform me if you need to relieve yourself or change the child’s cloths.  We will stop.”

“Thank you, my—,” she says, stopping herself before she gets out the title he’d told her not to use.  And then, realizing that regardless of any other circumstances or uncertainties, she does owe him real gratitude.  Had he not stepped in…  “And thank you,” she starts, having to swallow down her misgivings in order to finish.  “Thank you for not allowing them to take Sura… for allowing me to bring Sura with us.  I—.”

“I would not separate a mother from her child,” he repeats sternly once again, interrupting her, and looks back over his shoulder.  She can see one icy eye peering at her.  The tone of his voice makes her wonder about him.

 _Yet how many mother’s sons have you killed?_ she thinks.  _Not only did you lead soldiers to slaughter others, but I **saw** you.  How many children’s souls have you taken as your own, Demon.  How many mothers’ souls?_

He turns back to look forward, rattling, and snaps the reins.  The horses trot on, and the wagon rolls down the road. 


	2. See This Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~When he’d reached his hand out to them, he’d expected them to run to him. Some part of him that had died long ago even hoped for an embrace, or a kiss from his sweet wife. He had not expected the woman to panic and fight him all the way out of the building~

_What am I supposed to hide now?_  
_What am I supposed to do?_  
_Did you really think I wouldn't see this through?_  
_Tell me I should stick around for you, tell me I could have it all_  
_I'm still too tired to care and I gotta go_

_**Zzyzx Rd.** _

 

 

Quinlan is lost.

He’d recognized them the moment the elevator doors had opened and he’d come face-to-face with them.  But no, before that even… there was a feeling, an aura in that building.  The sound of the elevator coming down to the ground floor had Gus rushing over, pulling his gun ready to start firing.  But Quinlan could smell them, feel them, sense them—his wife, his child, _his_ —and he’d started barking at Gus and the other to _stop, do not open fire, **stop!**_

They are the same, but different.  Deep olive skin, Arabic or possibly Egyptian in descent—their blood originates from the same lands as _hers_ had.  But their brown hair is a few shades lighter than _theirs_ , and their eyes have an almost hazel hue to them in the light, unlike _theirs_.  They are Americans here, a mix of nations and cultures, and he looks at them, breathes them in, and finds beauty amidst a sea a devastation. 

The woman is fiery like Tasa, only worse…  Tasa’s fire had been dimmed by decades of subservience, by a society that practiced slavery and valued obedient women, by harassment and abuse and rape.  Tessa though is bold and defiant, a product of a different society with a different history, and she is so daring as to fight him with both words and fists.  Tasa _never_ would have behaved this way around him—she only ever stood up to him with pointed silences and hard looks—and it is disconcerting to face the spirit of his wife in such a changed way. 

Disconcerting—yet wholly, wonderfully invigorating. 

Quinlan has seen this only once before, but he _has_ seen it.  He’d found Ancharia again in the 13 th century in a small rural community near _Venezia_.  He’d realized _something_ was there as soon as he’d stepped foot on the dirt streets and had stayed with the assumption he would find strigoi in the town’s midst soon enough.  But no, he’d found himself dragged into a startling hug one evening, his mother’s smell suddenly overwhelming him, and he had simply _breathed_.

Ancharia—or Annetta then, a young women with blonde hair and green eyes—had recognized him immediately, had remembered everything.  Which is partially why expected this new Tasa and new Sura to recognize him.  Past experience is usually something he can rely on for guidance.  But even then his connection, his bond, his _love_ for these two souls was so very strong—is _still_ so very strong. 

When he’d reached his hand out to them, he’d expected them to run to him.  Some part of him that had died long ago even hoped for an embrace, or a kiss from his sweet wife.  He had not expected the woman to panic and fight him all the way out of the building.  

But then Ancharia had always been the spiritual sort, aware of parts of the world and humankind that eluded most.  Perhaps she’d just been a special case.

Still, Quinlan is lost.

He stands in the corner of the room that the humans eat in watching as Miss Velders, Mr. Fet, and Mrs. Sert… and _Tessa_ have a semblance of a breakfast.  He has much he needs to be doing—questioning the Doctor about the reappearance of his son, questioning said son, questioning Desai…  But instead, he finds himself lingering between his woman and his child.

His mistake last time was ever leaving them alone.

Tessa is trying to subtly scrutinize him, though Quinlan can feel her eyes on him like the touch of her hand.  She looks away whenever he meets her gaze and nibbles innocently at the corner of a graham cracker, even though Quinlan knows that look.  She’s thinking, mulling something over, trying to figure out her next move.  He assumes she is upset about Sura—no, _Sarah—_ and Quinlan can’t blame her.  Back in Roman times she wouldn’t have been too young for motherhood, though Quinlan isn’t so blind as to think that times haven’t changed.  And even in Ancient times, with no husband or patron, her pregnancy would have doomed her to a life of prostitution, or worse…

And memories are flooding back to him now like water bursting through a dam.  Little Sura, her cute smile and adorable laugh.  She’d been so young when he’d first married Tasa, barely two-years-old, tottering on her little legs and repeating small, simple words and phrases.  She’d never learned to truly fear him, had lived her short life only knowing him as the patriarch of their small family, had even called him ‘ _Pater_ ’ and ‘ _Tata_ ’...  **_Father_** and **_Papa_** …

And Tasa.  His sweet, beautiful Tasa.  He can remember her blatant fear of him at first, something that had slowly faded into acceptance, then gratitude, then…  Then something else.  Something more.  Understanding and affection, tenderness and intimacy, and eventually love.  There is _so much_ that he has packed away behind mental and emotional walls, locked away to protect his own sanity—the vision of her silhouetted by the setting sun in front of their home, the sound of her humming to a crying Sura, the smell of spices as she bent over a cooking pot, the feel of her thighs wrapped around his waist as he took her…

And he is lost.

The girl has a birthmark across the front of her neckline, horizontal through the middle of her throat.  It’s the strike of his blade across Sura’s neck, a violent death come back to haunt the soul in another body.  He hasn’t been able to see if Tessa bears a similar mark across the side of her neck—her thick shoulder-length hair has been left down, shielding it from view—though he is insanely curious.  His fingers itch to reach over from where he stands and brush her hair behind her ear, over her shoulder, and investigate.  _Are you scarred as well, amica mea?_ he thinks.  _Please forgive me. **Please.**_  

“Who was that woman you brought through here last night?” Tessa asks suddenly, turning in her chair to gaze back at Quinlan.  It brings Fet’s and Velders’ conversation up short, and they turn their heads to look at her, to look at Quinlan.  Tessa amends after a moment, “Or early this morning, I suppose?  After everyone else had gone to bed.”

“Did you go get Desai’s wife already?” Velders asks.  “I thought—.”

“Desai’s wife?” Tessa says, eyebrows raised. 

Quinlan breezes past this, just answers, “Yes.  She is locked up in the room next to the boy…  After listening to you both interrogate him last night, I feel her leverage is going to be necessary.”

“Lemme try one more time,” Fet says.  “Then, okay…  He’s all yours.”

“Mmm,” Quinlan hums, nodding in agreement. 

“Wait, wait,” Tessa says, splaying her hands out on the table.  “You’re going to use her to get him to tell you something?  You’re not going to hurt _her_ , are you?  She hasn’t done anything.”

“It is not my intention to harm her,” Quinlan begins, but then Velders is stepping in.

“She has profited off of everything he’s done,” Velders says, pointing down the hallway accusingly.  “Profited off of everything I went through, off of everything your own _daughter_ went through.  Tell me she doesn’t deserve whatever Quinlan chooses to dish out.”

Tessa’s eyes drift back to meet Quinlan’s, an odd expression on her face.  And Quinlan knows what is going through her mind— _‘everything your own daughter went through._ ’  Still such a compassionate yet complex soul.  He tries to reassure her, “I believe he will relent before I drink from her… Or at least before I drain her.”

Silence rings in the room after that.  Even Fet and Velders do not speak.  It’s several long, awkward moments before Tessa speaks up, “Well, that answers that question.”  Quinlan raises his brows at her, and she continues, gesturing vaguely toward her throat, “I’d been wondering whether you were, uh…  ‘Fully equipped’.”

Quinlan frowns at her, unsure whether to be annoyed or embarrassed.  Meanwhile Velders giggles quietly as if at some private joke.  And he suddenly realizes just how lost he truly is, because the lines are so very blurred for him right now.  Tasa had known what he was, had seen him feed before anything else, before they had even spoken to one another.  And even though he had tried to shield her from it once they were married, this part of himself he _knew_ was horrifying, she had still seen it again…  Multiple times at that. 

And it had simply never occurred to him that _Tessa_ might not know just what he was. 

“Yes, I am ‘fully equipped’,” he says, using her choice of words in return.  Velders giggles again, trying to hide it behind her hand, and Quinlan finds himself glaring at her, not quite sure what is humorous about his proboscis or his feeding.  Still he continues for Tessa’s sake, “You need not fear me, though.  I will not harm you—“ _**Especially** not you or Sarah…_ “—and I do not carry the parasite.  I cannot inadvertently infect you.”

“Oh well, that’s good to know.  I guess,” Tessa replies.  It’s followed by another few moments of tense silence, before she turns back to Fet and Velders and asks, “What exactly are you trying to get Desai to tell you, anyway?”

And they both begin explaining the plan to her, their goal of finding the Master’s location so they can stop him.  Much to Quinlan’s chagrin.  They at least leave most of the details out though Quinlan is sure this is out of security’s sake more than anything else.  But he does not want _them_ to know, not his wife nor his child, because he does not want _them_ to be involved.  They still have many years left to live out here even if it means Quinlan will move on to the afterlife without them.  Perhaps, hopefully, by the time he has finished his penance in Tartarus they will both be waiting for him in the Fields.

Though now faced with the feel of their spiritual auras all around him, he is suddenly no longer yearning for an end to his continuous suffering, a close to this infinite war.  No, he wants just one more day, one more week, one more month…  He will take anything he can get, so long as he is once again in their presence. 

Why has this happened now so close to his end?  Not years ago, decades ago, centuries ago, when he could have possibly taken a moment to rest and bathe in their splendor. 

He is so very _lost_.

~*~

It is an unplanned yet inescapable thing.  Quinlan had planned to leave the woman and the child behind when he left with the others and the bomb, or at least drop them off somewhere safe before reaching the Empire State Building.  He had all intentions of them not being involved in any of this.  It is too dangerous. 

Yet then they are traitored by Goodweather’s child, and they are gathering up everything they can easily take with them and rushing to leave.  His plan to leave them behind is instantly quashed, and he finds himself suddenly afraid to just drop them off somewhere.  The Master will have eyes out far and wide looking for anything suspicious. 

And his mistake _last time_ was ever leaving them alone.

 _They_ sit in the back of the van next to the nuclear weapon, something that makes Quinlan’s heart beat a little too fast.  He keeps glancing back at them in the rearview mirror checking to be sure they are safe.  Sarah’s eyes are always on the bomb when he looks, her expression caught somewhere between awe and fear.  Tessa’s eyes are usually on her child watching her protectively, though once when Quinlan looks back her eyes meet his in the mirror.  Her expression is blank, unexpressive, but Quinlan holds her gaze until she looks away herself. 

And he can’t help himself.  Maybe it is giving too much away, maybe it is showing his hand, but before he walks away from the van and leaves them…  After he has said his goodbye and Mr. Fet has shaken his hand, he finds himself staring down at his wife and child, at their soft, sweet faces.  He steps over, closer, and commands, “When I give the order, I want you both to flee.”

“What?” Tessa asks him, frowning.

“Flee,” he repeats.  “I do not care when Mr. Fet stops with the detonator, or when the others stop…  You and the child keep going until it is done.”

“How…?” she starts, before shaking her head and acquiescing.  “O-okay.  We will.”

And he still doesn’t know if that will be enough to save them.  Most likely not.  Which is why he finds himself stepping forward further still, drawing Tessa into the embrace he has wanted since those elevator doors first opened and her face appeared before him.  She stiffens in his arms at first, obviously stunned, before relaxing marginally and laying one hand on his shoulder.  And just that one, small touch over his padded coat is _heavenly_. 

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him, quiet.  “Don’t worry, we’ll all be fine.”

When he pulls back, the others are looking at him oddly, especially Sarah.  And he wants to embrace the child as well, but more than that he does not want to scare her.  So he only reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder, mirroring what Tessa had just done to him, and then turns away.  If he lingers for too much longer he will lose the will to do what needs to be done. 

He can hear them speaking to each other once he has walked far down the road, when they obviously assume he is out of earshot…

“He is so weird,” Velders says.

“He’s just…” Tessa starts, trailing off with a sigh.  Then, “He’s walking off to his death, isn’t he?  I mean, I kinda get that he’s not ‘normal’, but you’re about to blow up a bomb on top of him.  I’m assuming he’s not going to survive this.”

There’s an odd silence before Fet answers, “He’s been saying since we met him that his life was tied to the Master’s.  Ya know, his life for the other kinda thing, I guess?”

“That’s stupid,” Sarah decides.

But then Tessa is speaking up, voice soft, “Then give him a break.  I don’t see any of us walking off with him…  You can’t know what he’s going through right now.”

“Have you met him before?” Goodweather asks unexpectedly.  “Before recently, that is…”

“No,” Tessa answers, too quick.  It almost makes Quinlan stop and turn back.  _Does she remember something?  Anything?_   But then, her voice, firmer, “No.  He just seems like a very brave man.”

 _Man._   He’s not sure when he went from ‘Demon’ to ‘Man’, sometime in just the past few days, but it makes it even more difficult to keep walking forward. 

“Yeah,” one of Elizalde’s friends agrees.  “He sure has balls of steel.”

The last thing he hears before the wind blows their voices away out of earshot is the sound of Velders giggling.

~*~

As it turns out, the Master is not at the Empire State Building.

He’s honestly pleased with this development even if it just prolongs this battle toward his inevitable end.  But it gives him a chance to rethink his plan, and he realizes there is another way.  The bomb can be placed underground, the Master then forced underground as well, and then _they_ will both be safe. 

He will have to sacrifice one of his other companions, someone to work the detonator, though Mr. Fet is easily convinced to carry this burden.  And Quinlan would like to claim he feels merciless for so effortlessly throwing the man under the bus, but he does not.  In fact, he would slay all of New York and call it collateral if it would just keep _them_ safe. 

And he is preparing, nailing silver plates up in the lift walls, when he smells her come up behind him.  That subtle, sweet, feminine smell… he could breathe her in for centuries.  She clears her throat as though to alert him to her presence and then quietly says, “There has to be another way to do this.”

He turns back to face her, surprised at her boldness.  “This is the only way,” he says. 

She shakes her head.  “I know that’s what _they_ are saying,” she says, gesturing idly in the direction of the others.  “But why?  Why a bomb, why _you_?  You realize this all sounds fucking ridiculous, right?”

He finds himself growling low in his throat and chest.  The noise makes her take a step back, though at the same time her expression goes pinched and annoyed.  Unhappy.

“Really?” she snaps.

“You do not understand,” he says.  “You have not been here.  You do not know.” 

“Then tell me!” she says, throwing her hands in the air.  “I don’t understand what’s going on.  I want to help, but I don’t understand!”

“You know all you need to know, woman,” he snarls back.  “Do not push this.”

“My name is _Tessa_ ,” she snaps.  “And I do _not_ know.  I know nothing—.”  Her voice has raised in volume, enough so that the conversations of their other companions have trailed off.  He glances over her shoulder and sees Sarah sitting in the back of the van watching them both with wide eyes.  Either Tessa doesn’t notice this, or she does not care.  “—Everyone here has guns, you’ve got a sword, I mean…  Just kill the son of a bitch.  Why exactly do you need to nuke everyone?”

“The source of the infection must be stopped,” he attempts to explain.  “The original parasite must be destroyed.”

“And that requires a bomb?” she protests, shaking her head.  “Just sterilize it, or burn it, just like every other infection _ever_.”

“This isn’t like other infections,” Dr. Goodweather butts in, walking over and attempting to intervene on the quickly escalating argument.  “I spent months studying this, trying to make it fit aspects of other parasitic infections.  But it doesn’t, this is not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”

“He is right…” Quinlan begins, but is quickly interrupted.

“I refuse to believe that,” Tessa snarls at Goodweather.  “I was a nurse for over ten years.  I studied medicine, worked with the sick—do not stand there and tell me that this is a ‘parasite’ but ‘not a parasite’.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Goodweather counters with a sigh. 

“But it is,” she says.  “You’re saying it’s a parasitic infection, but the only way to kill it is with a bomb.  So it’s an indestructible parasite, then?  Except every other one I’ve come across I could crush under my shoe.  This is idiotic, _Doctor_.”

She says the title with such biting inflection, there’s no doubt she’s mocking Goodweather and his expertise.  Goodweather glares at her for a moment before turning away, and Quinlan is left marveling over her brazenness.  “You are very bold,” he notes, gazing down at her.

She redirects her scowl away from the Doctor and onto him instead, and says, “You’re just pissed ‘cause I’m _right_.”

And he’s hit with urge to strike her over such deliberate insolence—he’d never struck Tasa, but then Tasa had never dared speak to him in such a way.  He balls his hands into fists by his side, and finds himself sneering down at her instead.  _You are so very challenging, Wife_ , he thinks.  _You should listen to your own insults… you taunt a **Demon.**   _“Do not question me, woman,” he growls.

“Why?” she asks angrily, completely ignoring him. 

 _Because your presence is weakening my resolve_ , he thinks.  _The sound of your voice weakens me.  Your fire, your defiance, your questions, they weaken me.  _“ _Woman_!” he barks, his tone louder and more violent than he intended.  It makes her take a step back again, clearly still at least somewhat intimidated by him.  He rattles, trying to rein himself in, and says, “Woman, you _test_ me.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she says, rolling her eyes.  He does not feel her tone is very apologetic.  “I’d just rather not see people die for no reason.  Sorry.”

“I feel a continued existence is reason enough,” he states.

“But not your own,” she says.  She sounds almost sad.  “Everyone else’s existence, but not your own.”

“I have been alive for nearly two-thousand years,” he tells her.  “An end to this never-ending torment will be a relief.”

“Well…” she says, suddenly subdued.  Her gaze leaves his, settling instead on the concrete beneath her feet.  She shrugs her shoulders and finishes, “If that’s all you want, it’d be a lot easier to just take your gun and have it done with.”

“Woman…” he growls, a warning.

“Fine, fine,” she relents.  She looks up and meets his gaze one last time, her pretty brown eyes touched by disappointment.  “You’re gonna do what you want to do.  Forget I said anything.”

He stares at her back as she walks away.

~*~

Quinlan has accounted for everything about this moment, every move and action and effort.  He has trained for this fight his entire life.  He is ready to fulfill his destiny, end his father’s existence, and then move on to whatever afterlife awaits him. 

The only thing he had not accounted for is _them_ —unfortunately in more ways than one. 

He tells them to stay in the back of the van and to keep all the doors closed and locked.  They are not to come out under any circumstances, regardless of what they may see or hear.  But he should have realized.  If his preternatural senses were able to recognize them immediately, then he is not the only one who will recognize them.  His own senses are a result of his contamination, his birth by the Master’s omission, and he should have _realized_ …

His mistake _this_ time would be keeping them too close— _not_ leaving them alone.

His other human companions lure the Master in, and Quinlan waits for his moment to strike, waits for them to draw the Master close enough to the lift for Quinlan to force Him inside.  But then the Master steps up next to the van and pauses, cocking His head to the side.  For a moment Quinlan thinks that perhaps the Master can sense his presence and is preparing for Quinlan to attack, but then He is turning toward the van, grabbing onto the passenger side door handle, and pulling. 

The van wobbles violently from side to side as the door is ripped off the vehicle and thrown aside.  Goodweather’s boy scurries behind the Master for cover while the woman and child inside the van, _Quinlan’s_ woman and child, both scream.  The Master pauses, taking them both in, before a sick grin spreads across His face.

“Quintus!” He yells, stepping away from the van and looking around.  “I have found your women.  _Again_.”

And he should stop, he should wait.  The Master is not close enough to the lift for Quinlan to push Him into it, but this was not part of the plan.  Quinlan can only see Sura’s dead body before him, can only see the crazed look in Tasa’s infected eyes…  He can only see _red_.  It’s not even a conscious matter.  He’s across the concrete and next to the van in the blink of an eye.

The Master lets out a taunting laugh as Quinlan slams into Him, and they both tumble to the ground rolling wildly across the pavement.  He hears Sarah’s cry of fear from inside the van, and then Tessa’s echoing shriek—but her voice is no longer inside the vehicle.  He lurches away from the Master, taking a quick glance back to find her standing outside the passenger side of the van with her arms outstretched.  She’s shielding the inside of the vehicle, and subsequently her child, now that the van’s door has been torn away. 

 _Fierce, crazed woman_ , he thinks.  _Why won’t you **listen** to me?_

_Why are you the only thing in the godsforsaken world that makes me lose my mind?_

His Father drags him back with a growl, powerful hands grabbing him around his ribcage.  Claws rip through his coats and shirt before breaking the skin, blood welling up in the gashes and beginning to drip down his sides.  Quinlan snarls, the pain only fueling his anger, and pulls his sword from its sheath in one smooth motion.  He whirls, spinning with the sword in an attempt to injure Him, down Him, even behead Him… 

Quinlan can try once more if he beheads the Master again here—this plan has already been foiled anyway.  And next time he will be sure that _they_ are far, far away.  It will not be the first time he has been unsuccessful.  He is used to it by now, he is a professional at failing… 

But he does not behead Him—he only slices Him with the tip of his sword across the throat.  Worms begin to spill out littering the ground beneath His feet, and He turns furious eyes on Quinlan, deep-red meeting silver-white.  “What have you _done?_ ” The Master snarls, infuriated. 

“I have stopped You,” Quinlan answers, though the unsaid end of that sentence lingers in the back of his mind.  _I have stopped You… **for now.**_

The Master yells in fury and lashes out, His clawed fingers whipping to slash him across the face.  Quinlan throws his sword hand up to block the effort, but finds his sword knocked from his fist instead.  It clatters to the ground, spinning once across the concrete.  But before he can lunge for it, his Father is grabbing him by the front of his coat and flinging him upwards. 

He hits the top of the high ceiling with a resounding _crash_ , the concrete behind him breaking apart as he collides with it.  He feels several of his vertebrae crack and pop, pain spiking through him, but then he is quickly falling back to the ground.  He doesn’t have time to focus on his pain though.  He pulls his legs underneath himself instead, ready to clamber back up to his feet. 

His Father is waiting for him as soon as he hits the ground.  He kicks Quinlan’s legs away, causing him to fall back to the concrete and roll onto his back.  And Quinlan tries to pull himself up one last time, to use his inhuman strength and dart up and _end this_ —but the Master is holding him down with His own unearthly strength, one foot planted in the middle of his stomach. 

“I am so very tired of… and _irritated_ by you,” The Master says, sneering down at him.  “This ends here.  Tonight.”

The Master’s boot brutally comes down in the middle of his stomach, His ethereal strength seeming to combine with two-thousand years of pure hatred.  Quinlan breath seizes within his lungs at the pain, his abdominal organs ruptured and displaced, the toxicity of his own body spilling out within itself.  And then He stamps once again in the center of Quinlan’s chest, and his lungs are abruptly punctured by broken ribs, his heart struggling to pump under the pressure of fluid and dying tissue. 

His Father smiles down at him, obviously pleased with His work. 

And Quinlan watches The Master’s back as He turns and saunters away, and watches the Goodweather boy staring in unadulterated shock.  He can see the direction that the Master is heading, though it’s like looking through a tunnel, the edges going black.  His vision is blurring, his pain crippling and his body threatening to admit defeat.  But he still sees—he sees the Master approach the van, sees His wicked grin, and sees Him looking at _her_. 

Tessa is still standing resolutely outside the van in a hopeless attempt to protect her daughter.  She’s staring up at Him unflinchingly, but Quinlan can still see her fear, can see the way her hands are shaking and her body is trembling.  And he cannot…  He cannot do this again.  He cannot see this, he cannot witness this, he cannot do this _again_. 

**_No._ **

Quinlan grabs inside his coat at his holster, his fingers closing over one of his guns.  He pulls it out and aims though his hand is shaking madly.  They both turn and look at him with shocked expressions—Tessa and the Master both, perhaps they both thought him already dead.  He realizes he’s made noise amidst the agony of his movement, grunting and hissing and unintelligible cursing, and is suddenly glad for this…  It’s taken His attention off of _her_. 

The Master rushes forward to stop him, but Quinlan pulls the trigger at the same time, firing down the rapidly narrowing tunnel of his vision.  He hits his Father in the face and empties the entirety of the clip, watching as His skin melts from the silver and the worms spill out.  The ungodly sound of His shrieks fill the inside of the building before His earthly vessel slumps to the ground, dead. 

Quinlan watches Him for one more moment, watches the worms continue the flee His carcass, before he rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. 

 _There_ , he thinks groggily, his pain finally beginning to overwhelm him.  _I cannot watch them die again.  And now I will not have to._  

He can hear yelling and shouting around him, boots stomping on the concrete and guns continuing to fire.  He’s won this battle, if not the war, and he expects he will die now.  There is an odd numbness crawling over him and sweeping away the pain—he feels as though he is drifting and floating.  He feels no anguish, no longing, no hunger… only contentment.

He unexpectedly feels hands on his shoulders, then on his face.  And then fingers are touching his throat, his strig swirls, pressed against the _thudding_ of his carotid artery.  And a familiar voice is speaking, “Quinlan?  _Quinlan!_ ”

He makes a noise—perhaps a rattle, perhaps a grunt, perhaps he manages to form some sort of word.  He does not move or open his eyes though.  _Let me go_ , he thinks, dazed.  _It is okay, let me go…_

“Quinlan, stay with me.”  That voice is so very familiar.  He blinks open bleary eyes and finds himself looking up at _her._   Tasa, his sweet and beautiful Tasa.  He is already gone then…  Though she looks far too upset to be in the Fields, and she orders him, “Stay with me.  Keep your eyes open, look at me.”

 _Why would I close my eyes when you are so very gorgeous?_ he thinks.  “ _Amica mea_ ,” he croons to her, though his voice comes out cracked, watery.  He has to stop and _cough,_ of all things.  Wetness ends up on his lips and chin.  “ _Amica mea_ ,” he tries again.  “ _Ego te venerunt in domum suam._ ”  **_My love,_** **_I have come home to you…_**

“Shh, you don’t have to talk.  Just stay with me,” she tells him.  Her hands hover above him for a moment, before moving to rest on his shoulders again.  His eyelids are growing so heavy though…  He closes his eyes once more, breathing in the sweet scent of his wife.  “Quinlan!” she yells at him. 

“ _Dulce mihi in uxorem_ ,” he tells her, the words coming out slurred and unsteady even to his own ears.  He just wants to rest, to lie down next to her and sleep.  “ _Ita te amo…_ ”  **_My sweet wife, I love you so…_**

The last thing he hears before he drifts away into the darkness is his wife’s voice shouting his name. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ending! I hate cliffhangers, and then I went and did this, I'm so sorry lol. I'll fix it next chapter, promise.
> 
> Comments and kudos are love<3

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of this will end up being set post-tv show canon... This is sort of my fix-it fic, therapy session after the finale lol. I hope you readers find some better feels from it, too. I'm using a mix of tv and book canon for this, and have bent some facts and events to suit my needs--artistic license and all. Comments and kudos are love<3


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